


Shattered Walls

by Umidunnostuff



Category: Bleach
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, NSFW, Whump, canon-typical violence is referenced, there's sex n stuff in chapter 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2019-08-20 00:07:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16544960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umidunnostuff/pseuds/Umidunnostuff
Summary: Ulquiorra survives the battle with Ichigo, but just barely. Grimmjow is stuck looking after him. It's an unpleasant and uncomfortable situation for both of them.





	1. Chapter 1

There is something between Grimmjow and the fourth ranked. What that something is, neither of them could tell you. Ulquiorra would deny it outright, Grimmjow would tell you it was annoyance, or hatred, or wanting a god damn fight. But he couldn’t deny what had happened between them, the time when an argument in the hallways had gone further than usual, and the Grimmjow pinned Ulquiorra’s body against the blank wall there in that empty hall way, and something real had flashed in those dull green eyes, an instant of passion or rage but it was there and real just for an instant, and when grimmjow slammed their lips together in a kiss biting and rough and with unmistakable need, he wasn’t thrown off or blasted with cero, and instead Ulquiorra kissed him back, tugged at the broad hands wrapped around bony wrists, just hard enough to make it clear that he was allowing this, and sunk his teeth into grimmjow’s lower lip. The fucked there in that empty hallway, against the wall, still mostly clothed. The next time they fucked, it was in a bed, and Ulquiorra pinned him down and rode him, a vice grip on his throat so that his gasping was half pleasure and half desperation. The interludes continued, sporadic, sometimes weeks between, sometimes mere days, and Grimmjow resisted defining their something, resisted wanting more, but every single time he could wring more emotion from that stony marble countenance, could bring flashes of life to those jewel tone eyes, he felt a thrill of accomplishment, of victory.

When he felt that spirit energy, more powerful than even he knew, go from so dense it felt as if everything was under 30 feet of water, sluggish and heavy, to nearly nothing, his first emotion was disbelief. Ulquiorra was as steadfast as the marble his skin resembled, so coldly confident and steady and constant and it was infuriating sometimes (often), but believable for its certainty. Grimmjow himself was weak then, bleeding heavily from his fight with the redhead brat and then from that bastard Nnoitora’s attack. But he’s alive, and able to drag himself to his knees and patch himself up within the castle, half in ruins but still containing the supplies. But Ulquiorra won’t leave his thoughts. At some point within the next few hours though, when he can walk, curiosity and something oddly like grief begins to gnaw, and he makes his way to that big hole in the roof, the one that lets in the light of the true night, not the fabrication created by the interloper Shinigami. Every protruding tower is destroyed, and the place reeks of spiritual energy, destructive and pure and undiluted, the surface pitted and covered in rubble. 

He almost doesn’t notice, almost misses it, the white of the uniform matching the white stone, and his spirit energy down so close to nothing, but among the rubble lies a familiar body, sprawled and tattered ungracefully, and grimmjow almost wants to laugh, because the stoic, condescending fourth is here at his feet, brought so low by a mere human boy. But he himself is only there due to the mercy of the same boy, his own fight unfinished, and the thought is shaming, it rankles, and the destructive, impulsive part of him wants to run straight to the human world to challenge that whelp again, wounds and depleted spirit energy be damned. He doesn’t though, instead scooping the smaller espada into his arms, and he’s too light really, even for a person as small as him, and that porcelain skin is marred and scorched. He deposits Ulquiorra in a bed, hovering nearby. He doesn’t know why he feels the way to play nursemaid, but whatever the real nature of his thoughts on the other espada, he doesn’t want him to die. That’s all there is to it, he wants Ulquiorra alive, and right now he’s barely so.

Ulquiorra doesn’t normally look small. He is, he’s nearly a foot shorter than Grimmjow, and much more slender, but he has a way of seeming larger than life. He has a penchant for standing on things, fighting from the air, and his spirit energy has always been larger than life, dauntless and massive and unwavering. Now though, battered and weak and barely alive, dwarfed by the bed he’s sprawled in, he seems impossibly small and frail. It’s a discomfiting effect, and grimmjow spares a thought to the fact that Ulquiorra would hate the fact that he just thought that.

Grimmjow is exhausted though, sore and tired and depleted, and he’ll find out the results of the battle in the human world, and whether or not the Shinigami left, later. But for now, he makes his way to the nearest flat surface, a surprisingly plush couch, and collapses into a deep sleep. He’s awoken by some noise, what it is he’s not sure at first. Being woken up from such a deep sleep, he’s groggy, and it takes a moment to remember why he’s so sore, and to take stock of the dark room. It looks almost the same, except for the crumpled, pale figure on the floor besides the bed, struggling to rise. Ulquiorra had knocked something off of a table besides the bed in an attempt to stand, and his black nailed hand still grappled with the edge, grip white knuckled as he tried with futile persistence to drag himself to his feet.  
“Hey- hey, the fuck’re you doing,” he grumbles, standing and hauling Ulquiorra up to sit on the edge of the bed. If he’d reveled in every glimpse of emotion, every spark of vulnerability and crack in the impenetrable walls behind those green eyes, he was disturbed by what he saw now. Those walls were shattered, the roiling of confusion and pain and misery so clear in those eyes that he has to look away.  
“I was trying to stand,” his voice is as expressionless as always, but there’s less surety, the vicious bite just not there. “Even you are not so simple as to not realize that.”

“An’ I thought you were supposed to be the smart one, at least smart enough to know not try’n go prancing around when you’re this damn weak.” Ulquiorra flinches minutely at the dig, glaring at Grimmjow, and he doesn’t respond, turning his face away. 

“I was not aware that you were there,” he replies. “Why are you in my rooms?”

“To look after you. What, would you have rather I left you passed out on the roof?”

“I personally do not care. We owe each other nothing.” The crumpled shards of those walls are reassembling themselves within those green eyes, and Grimmjow is pissed. Actually he’s enraged, irrationally and blindly, for reasons he cant articulate, but he shoves that frail body down onto the bed with a hand on his narrow chest, leaning over Ulquiorra to snarl at him. Small hands grip his wrist, but they’re too weak, and his body is trembling but he’s weak, can’t overpower Grimmjow like he wants to, like he normally could, and so he just sneers at grimmjow, but Grimmjow can read the frustration and pain again now at least.  
“Lay the fuck down. You can’t do shit right now.” Grimmjow sneers, before standing again, dragging a hand through his hair. He doesn’t look at Ulquiorra, forcing himself to stop searching for reactions This is so wrong and uncomfortable, and Ulquiorra is quiet and still again at least, so he lies back down on the couch. It’s a long time before Grimmjow can sleep again though.

This time when he wakes up, it’s naturally, no noises to disturb him. When Grimmjow sits up, he expects Ulquiorra to still be asleep, but instead he finds him sitting up, steadier now, where he’d been shuddering just to hold his body upright the previous night. His spirit energy is at least noticeable now, still disconcertingly faint, but he’s no longer mostly dead. His face is placid as he gazes towards the window, calm but not harsh, and it feels something like an intrusion to be watching him while the other clearly hasn’t noticed his gaze yet. Or at least, Grimmjow thought he hadn’t until those sharp green eyes slide over to rest on him.

“You’re awake.” His voice is steady, gaze shuttered once more. “If you’re capable of moving I’d ask that you take up residence in your own room once again.” That little shit. He can’t even fucking walk without collapsing like a puppet with it’s strings cut, and Grimmjow has no idea what he’s thinking. Well now, he does. He knows his own pride would rankle just as much at needing help, at having to be assisted and carried. But that’s not going to stop his annoyance.

“Sure. I’ll leave ya alone if you can walk across this room without fucking collapsing,” he growls, not flinching under the withering glare he receives. But Ulquiorra sniffs, squares his shoulders and slips out from under the blanket, and to his feet, Grimmjow doesn’t miss the steadying hand on the table, or the tremor in his body, or the unnatural stiffness as he takes short steps towards the open closet. It’s impressive in a way, the sheer willpower it’s probably taking him to even stay upright. He doesn’t make it far though, losing his balance and tipping into the wall, before sliding down it despite his best effort.

Grimmjow sighs and moves to haul his to his feet once more, a hand under his upper arm, when Ulquiorra bats it away with a vicious glare. “I,” he snarls, dragging himself laboriously to his feet, “Do not intend to be your entertainment, nor do I appreciate the pity,” he spits the word as if it’s a curse. “So whatever sentiment it is that has you intruding, I do not want it. Leave.” That glare is sharp and cruel enough that Grimmjow backs up a step.

“I’m not- oh fuck off, you’re stuck with me until you can fuckin move without collapsing. Look at yourself, Huh? I ain’t exactly the type to play nursemaid, but you’re fuckin’ barely alive.” And he’d grieved. Now that he’s thinking about it, looking at him in the face and realizing that for several hours he’d thought the smaller espada was dead and had missed him like a piece of flesh torn away.

“My wellbeing is not your concern,” Ulquiorra says, placid once more because he's blind to the way that those words sting, and he turns towards the wardrobe to pull out clean clothing, one hand braced on the wall, and that fine tremor running up his spine. He pulls off the tattered uniform with no thought to Grimmjow. They’d seen each other nude before, of course they had, and they weren’t the prudish sort anyways, But looking now feels different. That pale skin is littered with marks that are healing slowly despite Ulquiorra’s high speed regeneration, patches of skin looking almost scorched, and Grimmjow doesn’t bother to tear his eyes away until Ulquiorra is redressed. He tells himself it’s in case the other collapses again.

With clean clothes on, neat and zipped up to his chin, he could almost pretend Ulquiorra is fine. At least until he takes a step and sways precariously, and Grimmjow sighs again and ignores his arguments, gripping the other man around the waist and all but hauling him to the couch, dumping that too light body there. Why was he so light? It must be a regeneration thing.

“I’ll make tea. You like that crap right?” he grumbles, but his glare meets the blank face of the other man, who seems to have resigned himself to being looked after. He doesn’t respond so Grimmjow just makes it, guessing as to the amount of tea leaves and the steeping time, but when he plunks the cup in front of Ulquiorra, he sips at it. 

“You’re not very good at making tea.” he remarks placidly, though he does continue to drink it. 

“Feh, whatever.” Grimmjow hopes that Ulquiorra recovers fast because this is just… weird.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to reiterate what I put in the tags: there's sex in this chapter

After days, Ulquiorra is still not back to normal. He’s better. When Halibel returns, she holds her first meeting as their new leader,the strongest one still alive, still bandaged, and they speak in that room with the long able, the former third at the head of it and their scant remaining ranks populating maybe every other seat. Ulquiorra walks all the way there, and does not collapse when he sits, though he does glare when he notices Grimmjow’s gaze. After though, Grimmjow catches him, leaned against a wall in a deserted hallway that leads to nowhere, trembling finely. He doesn’t bother to hide his steps as he walks up, and when Ulquiorra meets his gaze with a flat, mildly disdainful stare, he returns it.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself,” he says, blunt and crass. That horrible, unnatural lightness to his body, the odd hollowness that Grimmjow suspects came from regenerating nearly his entire body, had worn off, but his strength seems to come and go. Sometimes he can move around seemingly comfortably (Ulquiorra is so impassive, Grimmjow will never know how much pain he is actually in) and sometimes he drops like a puppet with his strings cut. Grimmjow has used it as an excuse to linger, and Ulquiorra, despite token protests and glares, has allowed it.

“I am not an invalid,” Ulquiorra snaps, pushing himself upright stubbornly. His spine is ramrod straight when he stands, and out of what seems to be pure force of will, begins walking towards his rooms. The glare on his face is vicious, and it is a look Grimmjow has come to associate with an impending collapse, because for all his acting like he doesn’t care, Ulquiorra is stubborn and prideful beyond all sense and rationality.Grimmjow falls into step besides him, slowing his own long legged stride without comment, but that pointed glance from emerald eyes says enough without words.

He does actually make it all the way to his room, walking in a way that’s nearly normal, but that’s betrayed by the way his knees give out, and Ulquiorra just barely catches himself with hands on the edge of a counter. Grimmjow takes an aborted step when he sees the start of the fall, and moves closer cautiously. The look he gets when he moves Ulquiorra onto the bed, with more gentleness than he thought his rough hands could manage, is softened with something that might be thanks. It’s not said though. So little is, between them.

The odd sort of cohabitation continues, awkward and tense at times, as Ulquiorra chafes at his own weakness, and Grimmjow pushes and snaps, often frustrated and confused by his own feelings, and the marble wall of indifference he seems to hit after every instance of softening.

The first time they are together, after the fight with the Shinigami, Ulquiorra initiates it. They hadn’t been talking. Grimmjow had come back from one of those new patrols Halibel had instituted, and Ulquiorra had wordlessly handed him a hot cup of tea in lieu of responding verbally to his greeting. Ulquiorra is watching him over then porcelain rim held, dark nails standing out in sharp relief against his white skin and the white cup. The noise when he sets the cup down is ringing, definitive, and it looks almost like Ulquiorra had decided something. When had Grimmjow started being able to read these things in the minute mannerisms of the stoic man? His musings on the topic, however, fee hismind entirely, when that same black-nailed hand curls around the nape of his neck, and pulls him into a kiss, cool, smooth lips against his own. There wasn’t much force in the motion, but it was familiar,and so welcome, that Grimmjow had moved with it instinctively, lips parting to the kiss and broad hands bracketing narrow hips. He’s not thinking, just responding, when the growl leaves him, and he yanks Ulquiorra closer by the hips, deepening the kiss.

Ulquiorra isn’t passive by any stretch of the word, pushing Grimmjow’s shirt off his shoulders insistently and biting at his lip, minute gasps and shifts into his touch that signal his want as clearly as moaning and pleading would in a moor expressive person.

“The bed,” breathes Ulquiorra, pushing Grimmjow towards it and taking the chance to divest himself of the upper portion of his clothes. When he straddles Grimmjow’s hips on the mattress though, his reason returns at the sight of the scars on that previously flawless, porcelain skin. He stills, and it must be obvious, where he’s looking, because there’s a shove on his shoulders. 

“Lie down,” Ulquiorra demands and oh. That’s right. He can’t just pin Grimmjow, can’t hold his own in the violence that is their normal coupling. When Ulquiorra sees that Grimmjow is still distracted, his eyebrows crinkle in annoyance and frustration, and he frowns, jerking grimmjow’s chin into another kiss, sloppier and more demanding than before. He grinds his hips pointedly, bringing attention to their arousal, he finally succeeds in distracting Grimmjow. Somewhat. But when Grimmjow tries to place gentle hands on his bare waist, Ulquiorra removes them, holding them down with his own two hands. There’s no force behind it, so instead he glares, and says “stay,” in clear command. Grimmjow’s throat goes dry, and he can’t bring himself to do anything but comply. Ulquiorra removes his hands, moving to instead unfasten his pants, and Grimmjow is treated to the sight of him fingering himself open, eye contact constant, lips just barely parted, breathing imperceptibly faster. It’s gorgeous. It’s frustrating. It’s torturous. He can’t see the workings of Ulquiorra’s hand, and can’t get any stimulation himself, can only twitch and watch and wonder. When eh gasps, was that another finger, when his eyes drop closed and precome beads at the tip of his cock, did he find his prostate?

Grimmjow groans out loud when Ulquiorra’s and, slick with his own precome, finds his cock, stroking hard, not easing into it gently. When Ulquiorra sinks onto his length, it’s not slow or gentle, and he gives himself no time to adjust. Heat engulfs Grimmjow, and if he was a lesser man he’d come right then, because it’s tight and hot around him, and so sudden, but so characteristic of the person astride him. It’s always been like this, Ulquiorra is impatient, has never asked for concessions of gentleness, will never do so. When he starts riding Grimmjow, his pace is hard, and his hands find Grimmjow’s wrists, holding them down not with unconquerable force, but Grimmjow is pinned in place nonetheless, by the weight of that green gaze. It’s unwavering, it’s stubborn, it just dares him to pity the smaller man, and promises retribution if he does. It’s one of the most arousing sights Grimmjow can think of. So grimmjow does what he can, thrusts up into Ulquiorra and groans out loud, head tossing and body writhing as Ulquiorra moves unceasingly, helpless under his commands, letting him do as he’d like.

Ulquiorra moves his hands from his wrists to brace on his chest instead, aiding his thrusts and shifting the angle in some way that must be better, because his breathing becomes harsher and his eyes go half lidded, and it makes Grimjow want to go faster, harder, whatever he can do to elicit more from the man because it’s so rare, so precious, to see him like this. Another reason for the vulnerability though, shows itself in the tremble of Ulquiorra’s thighs, felt under Grimmjow’s palms where he’d moved them to Ulquiorra’s waist.

He doesn’t want to stop. Doesn’t want it to end. So Grimmjow makes an impulse decision. With a smooth motion, he wraps an arm around Ulquiorra’s waist, and rolls them over, Ulquiorra’s body under his, inly hair spilling on white sheets and green eyes wide with surprise and hazy in pleasure. They don’t so this. He’ll fuck Ulquiorra against a wall, or Ulquiorra will ride him, but unerringly, always, Ulquiorra will not allow himself to be entirely under grimmjow’s power, looked down on and at his will. Grimmjow stills, wary, and watches Ulquiorra’s gaze level, go calm in…. acceptance? Either way, those pale hands move to grip at his shoulders, and he pulls Grimmjow in to bite his earlobe. 

“Well? Move.” The words are murmured in his ear, along with a pointed roll of narrow hips, and Grimmjow can’t help the fractured, wrecked noise that leaves him as he moves. He thrusts into Ulquiorra, a hard pace coming to him, it’s what they both prefer, what the both need, and Grimmjow can feel his own end coming. Ulquiorra’s legs are wrapped around his waist, head tilted back and slender neck bared. His eyes go fully closed, and his body is shaking, notes of his voice leaving those wet lips along with gasps. They’re not gentle, even like this. Ulquiorra’s nails dig into the flesh of his shoulder, the pain singing along his veins, adding fuel to the fire in his stomach, and when he bites the crook of Ulquiorra’s neck, he looses an aborted cal. It sounds like almost Grimmjows name. The animalistic, greedy part of Grimmjow wants to make him scream it, so he repeats that, over and over, until there’s a constellation of marks on that pale skin. 

Maybe it’s just that he’s too tired for pretenses, or maybe it’s that something that grimmjow has seen in his gaze, but Ulquiorra is so responsive. When he comes, he buries his face in Grimmjow’s neck, groans and tightens his grip, and arches off of the bed as he spills, spasming around his length. That’s not what sets him off though.

“Keep going- in me-“ comes the slightly fractured command, and when Ulquiorra pulls back he looks so thoroughly fucked, that it sets Grimmjow off. He comes with three hard thrusts, enough to make Ulquiorra’s body jolt with the force of it, to make him gasp and claw at Grimjow’s shoulders, and damn, he’s going to jack off to that for years.

When he pulls out, Ulquiorra doesn’t react much. A breath leaves him, his eyelashes flutter, and he relaxes against the sheets. He must’ve really worn himself out, always burning through that small reservoir of energy too fast, Grimmjow thinks wryly. After he cleans up, he intends to leave. They never share a bed. Never had, in all their nights together. But this time, a hand stops him from moving far.

“Stay,” Ulquiorra says, watching him through hooded eyes, and the emotion there is indecipherable, but it’s there. So Grimmjow grins, and easily flops into the bed, both of them still nude.

“You’re bossy today,” he says with no bite. Ulquiorra lets out a sleepy mumble, and it’s so undignified, so unlike him, that Grimmjow almost laughs. But instead, he just lets him sleep. Not that he sleeps, because now that the arousal has worn off, he has to think about (and panic a little about) what the actual living hell had just happened.

**Author's Note:**

> I love physically destroying stoic characters to force vulnerability. At some point I'll probably write the smut scenes I referenced.


End file.
